Baldwin nodded. In the Abbey Church there were shrines to its chief benefactors. Not only St. Rumon, but also Ordulf and his wife ?lfwynn, the two founders, Abbot Lyfing, who rebuilt it after it was razed by Vikings, and Eadwig, who gave his manor of Plymstock to the monks. All were remembered with reverence and gratitude.
“The Abbot has a great number of duties to attend to,” Jeanne continued, “in honor of the patron saint of the Abbey. Merchants and craftsmen bring offerings to St. Rumon’s shrine, and some always wish to speak to the Abbot to make sure that what they have given will earn them their due reward.”
“I am sure the Abbot discharges his duties honorably and to the satisfaction of all who go to the church,” Baldwin said lightly.
“Yes. Abbot Champeaux is a good and kindly man.”
“I am sure he is,” Baldwin agreed. “I am glad you live on his land. He must be a good lord to his bondmen.”
At that she laughed. “ I am lucky, yes, but you wouldn’t hear many of the other people living on his land say as much. Did you hear about Torre?”
“Only that he had argued with a monk the night he died.”
“Abbot Champeaux is a generous soul, but he is determined to make sure that his lands pay. He’s converted some of his serfs into tenants: rather than having to provide him with service in his fields and paying him a small rent, he has given them leases so that they are better able to farm for profit.”
“Why should he want that?”
“It brings in more money to the Abbey. Look at Torre. The Abbot was going to make him take a lease, and that would have meant that instead of a few pennies each year, he would have to pay twelve shillings to the Abbot. That was being generous, for now Torre has died, he will get that from the new tenant, but the Abbey’s almoner thinks he will earn more, probably a pound each of pepper and cumin as well as the money.”
“So that was what Torre was complaining about. He was to win more freedom, but would have to pay for the privilege.”
“Yes.”
Baldwin chewed thoughtfully. “And the monk, Peter, was defending his lord, and that was why he came close to fighting the miner.”
“Do you still doubt that Elias was the killer?”
“I cannot believe it was him. If he had a motive for killing Torre, why should he wait until now to do it?”
“Surely he might have bottled up any slight until the fair so that there would be a confusing number of people around?”
“It is possible. He doesn’t strike me as a fool, and that would involve a certain cunning. But I still believe that if Elias did have a part in this murder, it was as an accomplice. It is the other man I want to meet, the man he is shielding.” And unless he tells us who that was, Baldwin admitted to himself, there is little chance of clearing up this mess.
The Abbey’s wall had several gates. There was the small one beneath the Abbot’s lodging, the water-gate which gave onto the Abbey’s bridge, and the court-gate-a great block with rooms above that took the bulk of the traffic to and from the Abbey. It was here that monks with little to do would pass their time talking to travellers.
Arthur had asked him to get information, and the groom knew where to go. Henry walked toward the open wicket-gate in the massive oak doors. There were already a couple of hawkers standing there, chatting to a monk, who rested on a shovel and eyed the passing crowd. Even this early people choked the street on their way to the fair.
In his hand, Henry carried a large pitcher of good Bordeaux wine. He leaned against the wall until the hawkers had moved on, and then greeted the monk. “Brother, my master told me to thank you and the Abbey for allowing him to come to the fair. He sends you this. ” He flourished the wine.
“For us?” the monk said dubiously, taking the pitcher and sniffing at the open mouth. His mood quickly improved as he smelled Arthur’s good wine.
“Try some,” Henry urged. “It is my master’s best.”
The monk eyed it, then Henry, then the pitcher again. At last he made up his mind, set the shovel against the wall, and took a quick sip. “It’s good,” he breathed.
Henry glanced behind him. There were many visitors in the Great Court, and no one was paying any attention to the pair at the gate. “I’ve never tried my master’s wine,” he said sadly. “He always tells me it’s too good for a groom.”
“That’s typical.” The monk shook his head. From his accent Henry was pleased to hear the soft burr of Devon. Henry was sure he must be a lay brother, a local peasant offered free food and lodging in the Abbey’s precinct in exchange for taking on much of the laborious work so that better-born brothers could spend their time in study and contemplation without the need for excessive manual work. “The poor never get to taste the better things in life, do they?” He looked over his shoulder, then suddenly thrust the pitcher at Henry. “Here, you try some.”
Henry took a long pull at the wine and passed it back, smacking his lips. “It’s fine, isn’t it? I can see why my master keeps it for himself.”
The monk weighed it speculatively in his hand. “Your master said it should go to the monastery, or to the Abbot?” he asked seriously.
“He said it was for the Abbey, to thank the monks.”
“In that case, since I am a monk…” his new friend said gravely, and upended the pitcher again. “But it would be greedy to have it all,” he added, and winked as Henry took it back again.
“Is it very busy in there? You have a lot of guests.”
“More than usual,” the monk agreed, wiping a dribble of wine from his chin. “People from all over. The bailiff and his wife, a man from Crediton, a…”
Henry waited while the monk told him of all the visitors. When he mentioned Venice the groom jumped on the word. “Where’s that? Is it near York?” he asked innocently.
“No, it’s foreign. Somewhere south of Gascony,” the monk said knowingly. “Outlandish, though. You should see the way they dress.” He shook his head and drank again.
“What are they here for? I’d have thought they’d go somewhere else if they wanted to buy things.”
“Oh, no. They’re here to negotiate with the Abbot. They want to arrange to buy all his wool over the next three years at a fixed price. That way the Abbot knows how much he’ll get in advance, and it’ll make his work a little easier.”
“I see. They’ll be here for some time, then.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I reckon as soon as they have their contract they’ll be gone. They seem to have other business to deal with, according to my friend who works with the guest-master, and want to leave quickly when the Abbot has agreed their contract.”
“They must be rich to negotiate with the Abbot.”
“They say they are.”
Henry’s ears pricked. “You think they aren’t?” he asked, feigning disinterest.
“Something’s not right about them. They say they are merchants and bankers, and such men are very well-off. But these fellows, they have very fine clothes and their saddles and harnesses are good quality, but their horses are cheap creatures.”
Henry could understand the distinction. His master often played the host to affluent men, and as a groom he knew that those who sported good clothing owned the best horseflesh as well, and spent fortunes on finery for their animals. There was no point in a first-quality mount if it was made to look like a broken-winded nag by cheap saddle and harness. The wealthy flaunted their money. He recalled the Camminos’ arrival in town. “Why should that be?”
“They said they were robbed, but if they were, why wasn’t their money and plate taken? And if someone took their horses, wouldn’t they have taken the saddles and equipment as well? I think these men aren’t as well-heeled as they would have the Abbot believe. Still, it’s none of my concern.”